


A World With You

by MyFavoriteSong



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar but stable Ian, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Mickey is still in prison, My First Fanfic, Post Season 5, Song Inspired, Travel, angst maybe sort of, letters and postcards, only happy endings in my world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-24 12:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyFavoriteSong/pseuds/MyFavoriteSong
Summary: Can the love of a grumpy dark-haired prisoner compete with the great big world outside Chicago?Inspired by the Jason Mraz song "A World With You".





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)   
> I've never had the courage to post anything I've written. Months and months ago, I shared some stories I had started for the first time with a new friend, and her encouragement is giving me the balls to do it. She introduced me to this song, while comparing our Gallavich playlists, so this story is dedicated to got_milkovich, for lending me some balls and for loving my Trixie songs ;) Unless this sucks, then forget I mentioned her!  
> The timeline isn't entirely canon. Mickey's still in prison, but his sentence is shorter. Mexico will remain just a country, not a trigger. Ian has his shit, his bipolar,and his meds (mostly) under control. The s5 breakup happened, but they've dealt with it. Some of it may be a stretch, but suspend reality with me for a minute, ok?   
> Any mistakes are my own. Mostly because I wouldn't let anyone else look at it. Be kind, but honest. I'm outlined at 5-6 chapters. Love you weirdos.

“Yeah, Mick. I’ll wait.”

The words he’d whispered that first visit to Mickey weighed heavily on Ian’s mind. Mostly because they had been a lie. Not a lie born of malice or deception, exactly, probably not even a lie in the strictest sense of the word, but it still battled inside his gut. The truth was, he’d wait forever for Mickey, in the ways that it counted. It didn’t matter where Ian was, what he was doing, who he was with, the parts that mattered, the voice in his head, his heart, would always be with Mickey. The rest of him, though, just couldn’t BE here anymore. He couldn’t go through the motions everyday, wake up, morning meds, work, help Liam with his homework, put him to bed, evening meds, go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat like an endless cycle, pausing only to visit the prison every other weekend. He hated seeing Mickey behind that glass, unable to touch him, smell him, hold him. It occurred to him after less than six months into Mickey’s sentence that constant visits weren’t going to work, almost made it worse. Every other day became a few times a week, which, after 3 years, had dwindled to every other weekend. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Mickey, it just felt like they were both wasting away in their own kind of prisons. Mickey, obviously, in the orange jumpsuit, bars on the door and windows kind, but Ian was trapped in a prison of repetition, of so-called normalcy. While it was definitely not comparable to the humiliations that Mickey was dealing with, Ian couldn’t help but wonder how much longer they could stay in their cages before resentment and anger set in. Ultimately, it was the fear of losing Mickey that drove him to tell him that he was leaving. A tentative smile had flashed over Mickey’s face, no doubt meant to mask his own fear of losing the straining thread that held them fast together.

“You just got here, Gallagher. You running off already?”, Mickey said through the crackling phone line, eyes glued to Ian’s face.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Mick. I gotta get out of here, out of Chicago, out of my stupid fucking life. I can’t keep banging my head against the wall, waiting for something to change, to feel RIGHT, when I’m not even doing anything to change it.” Ian desperately willed the blue eyes locked on his to soften, to understand that this wasn’t about leaving Mickey, it was about finding himself.

“Ian, I’m stuck in here for 2 more years, if I’m fucking lucky and they keep on stacking up the bodies around here and overcrowding the place. There’s nothing else I can do for you until then. I don’t know what you… You can’t do this to me again, man. You just got all your shit together, you can’t just…” Mickey hesitated, hating the words he knew were about to fall from his lips. “Are you taking your meds, man? What’s going on with you?”

The sting was obvious on Ian’s face, but he silently reasoned that it wasn’t typical of Mickey to jump to that conclusion. And besides, he probably wasn’t explaining this in too clear a way. He took a deep breath before he spoke again.  
“I’m taking my meds, Mickey. I’m stable, I’m clear-headed, I’m sure. That’s the only way I know that this is what I need to do. I wouldn’t be able to actually choose to do this otherwise. You think I’m just fucking off for the fun of it? I don’t want to be away from you, Mick, but it’s not like I can be with you right now anyways. It’s like “stable” me isn’t me, either, ya know? I gotta try, I gotta figure out who the hell I am. I’d give you all of me right now, you know I would, but I’m not enough. You deserve ALL of me, and until I can figure out who that is, I don’t deserve to make you settle.”

“Bullshit, Gallagher! You’re running again? This is that same shit that you pulled when you came back from your mom’s all over again, isn’t it? What the fuck, man? I thought we were past all that? I--” Mickey was panicked, remembering the break up speech that Ian had tried to hand him in front of the Gallagher house that day. It was over 3 years ago, and he thought Ian was over that, but the thought of it still made Mickey’s pulse quicken and his palms sweat.

“No, Mick, no. I’m not leaving you… I mean I AM, but… Look, when you are out of here, when you’re really and truly free, that’s all I want. I want it to be you and me, sickness, health, all that shit…” Ian remembered that conversation from the front steps, too. He couldn’t go back and change it, but he could finally make good on the promise he made to Mickey after it happened.  
“I promised you that I’d do better, that I’d get my shit together, and I have Mick, I really have. But it just feels like something’s still missing. I need to, I don’t know, see the world or something. I need to be able to give you all of me, and I don’t think it’s all there yet. Mickey, you’re everything to me. I just want to give everything back to you, too. I don’t know what I’m even looking for! Maybe I’ll know it when I see it, maybe I’ll lose everything and come back with my tail between my legs, but I have to try! Please understand, Mick. Please say you understand, and you’re not mad at me. I’m doing this for you, too, even though it probably doesn’t sound like it.”

Ian outlined his plan to Mickey, the scheduled Skype calls with his doctor, check-ins with his family, the medication schedule, the tentative itinerary, the passport Vee had helped him get, the letters and phone calls he promised to send. He had cashed out the savings he had left from his job, so he had enough money to start his trip, at least. He’d probably have to pick up some odd jobs along the way, but it was something.

He had been working in the bar at the James Hotel downtown for almost the entire 3 years that Mickey had been locked up. He’d remembered being there with guys like Ned, and he was enough of a chameleon that he could find a way to fit in, even charm the guests. He could especially charm the pervy businessmen that often stayed at the boutique hotel, but he found that he could earn his tips now just pointing them in the direction of Boystown with some harmless flirting. Information, a shy smile, and the number of a discrete cab company were all he needed to satisfy them now, and he was thankful for that. It certainly beat shaking his junk, or worse, for tips at the Fairy Tail. So, he flirted, he poured drinks, and he listened… absorbed. He heard about places he’d never see, places these rich bastards, tycoons, minor celebrities traveled and took for granted. Paris, London, Aspen, fucking China! Mountains, trees, waterfalls… things he’d never see in the Southside, for sure. 

“Sounds like you got all kinds of ideas,” Mickey muttered. “Don’t need my help. Don’t need my permission. Not that you asked for it. Can’t see your family letting you take off like that, though. Shit, by the time you convince them, I’ll be able to go with ya!” Mickey chided, despite the trembling of his hands.

Ian’s eyes dropped to his own hands in his lap. They were shaking, too. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow, Mick.”

Ian didn’t sleep much that night, between the nervousness of leaving and Mickey’s reaction.   
He had known there would be a reaction, he just hadn’t been prepared for the one that he got. The defeated look in Mickey’s watery eyes, the almost silent “Yeah...be safe.” Mickey uttered as he stood and backed away from the cubicle they sat in, the glass, Ian. His eyes never left Ian’s until he reached the door to the visitor’s room, where after a heartbeat, Mickey turned and left Ian’s sight. As the sun rose over the grey expanse of the Southside, Ian was grabbing his army green duffel bag and leaving the house on Wallace Street, still silent with his family tucked sleeping inside.


	2. J'attendrai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to sweet Lena for the French lessons. xoxo

 

_Hey Mick, so I made it here.  The plane ride wasn’t as exciting as I thought it’d be.  I slept most of the time, so you didn’t miss much. I miss you.  But you probably knew that. I hope you do. It’s quieter here than I thought it’d be, not like Chicago.  It’s easy to just get lost, but maybe that’s just cause no one knows me. I’m taking care of myself, I promise. I love you. I’ll write soon, Ian._

 

***

 

Ian should not have been surprised how easily he blended in.  Despite his height and firey hair, as a middle child, he was born to blend in.  Especially in the sea of strangers he found himself surrounded by at the Charles de Gaulle Airport.  Of all the places he’d considered visiting, Paris probably seemed one of the least likely. Leaving the love of his life behind to travel to the City of Lights, well...the irony was not lost on Ian.  So, in the city filled with lovers, Ian got lost.

 

He spent most days walking around the city.  He saw the sights, Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, the Palace of Versailles.  He would hop buses or hitch rides. He took free walking tours, until he knew the sights so well, he could count on scamming a few euros from English speaking tourists.  He’d look out for a group, usually silly college girls who would confuse his charm, honed from his time at the hotel bar, for flirting, and hand over their parent’s money to follow Ian around the city.  He’d point out buildings and invent facts, then disappear into the crowds, blending like he did.

 

Nights were spent alone, folded into the tiny bed, in the tiny loft that he rented from an elderly widow, Monsieur Charbonneau.  The friendly old man spoke enough english for them to have short conversations. He was also a bit of a hoarder, so the best way to describe the dilapidated   remains of the centuries old home was squalor, but Ian didn’t mind. It was cheaper than a hostel, with far more privacy. So he made himself at home there, alone in the dark, listening to M. Charbonneau sing softly to the old records he was fond of listening to at night.  Soft melodies and rich sounding French words relaxed the anxious feelings that came in the dark, when the loneliness made him miss Mickey the most. He was lulled to sleep each night by the same tune. It was the old man’s favorite, he assumed, and always the song that played last each night.

 

_“J’attendrai,_

_Le jour et la nuit,_

_J’attendrai toujours_

_Ton retour, j’attendrai”_

 

***

 

Once a week, he would pack up his backpack and head to the little cafe he had found.  It had cheap cappuccinos, day old pastries, and free wifi. From a secluded table in the corner, he would bring out the secondhand laptop that his siblings had gifted him for his trip, bringing up Skype, where he would spend 30-45 minutes online with Dr. Reta.  She would go through her checklist of questions, meant to ensure Ian was maintaining, keeping up with his meds and his sleep, and not in danger of falling into a mood or behavior that could be a sign on emerging mania or depression. It was a bit overbearing, if Ian was being honest, but he understood that being alone so far from home, it was better to be safe than sorry.  When he and his psychiatrist were both satisfied that he was on track for the next week, they’d set up a time and day for the following week’s call, when they’d go through the same list of questions again. He’d try a video call out to the Gallagher house afterwards. Sometimes he’d catch the whole gang at breakfast, but other times it would just be a smaller Gallagher contingency, which he honestly preferred.  Fiona would catch him up on news from the Southside, how things were going at the diner, or she’d talk about Gus or Sean or whoever it was that week, Ian couldn’t keep track. Lip was still Lip, he’d talk about himself mostly, as usual. Catching Carl or Liam was always good for a laugh, each boy fleshing out what persona they were trying on that week. If Ian was really lucky, though, he’d catch Debbie alone for a few minutes.  It was a big shock to Ian to find out that his baby sister was expecting a baby of her own. It was also a shock when she let slip to him that she was visiting Mickey in Ian’s absence. Most times, she told him, Mickey wouldn’t really talk. They’d just sit there, glass between them and telephone handset untouched, until her 15 minutes were up, but the fact that she was there meant to much to Ian.

 

The days that he spent hours staring at the tiny laptop were also the days that he found himself giving in and letting the thoughts about Mickey flood his mind during the day.  Mickey was never far from his mind, but he forced himself to keep the promise he made in his head. Once a week, that was all. Only once a week would he allow himself to pour his heart out to Mickey, to give in to the loneliness, and put pen to paper.  Sometimes it was page upon page, long letters that told Mickey of the odd people he met, the strange food he tried. Sometimes, when the emptiness of his loft, his arms, his heart, was too much, it would just be a short postcard.

 

***

 

_Hi Mick. I climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower this week.  Well, ⅔ of it. Can’t go the whole way, so that’s some bullshit. Still quite a view. I thought if I tried hard enough, and squinted I could see all the way to you. I waved to you, too, but I suppose you didn’t see. M. Charbonneau is teaching me how to make chicken roulade later. I guess it’s just chicken rolled up with filling. I’ll make it for you when I come home, Mick. I miss you. Like, every day. I know you don’t really understand why I had to come here. Some days I’m not really sure, either.  I know I’m looking for something, but I can’t seem to find it, cause I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking FOR. I hope I’ll just know it when I find it. I’ve learned a little French now, too. Ready? Ferme ta gueule, Mickey! Haha! Je t’aime, Ian._

 

_***_

 

As time continued to pass, Ian had found himself keeping company with old M. Charbonneau most evenings. Sometimes they would prepare a meal together, teaching Ian simple French dishes, or watch old American tv shows, dubbed into French speaking voices. Most times, though, they would just sit in the worn wooden chairs of the dining room, smoking short cigarettes and drinking glasses of something the old man called _citron presse՛_ , which tasted just like lemonade to Ian. Gus, everyone in town called the old man, though Ian wasn’t sure if it was his name or just a term of endearment. Gus would tell Ian stories of when he was Ian’s age and, in his own words, _un connard_. Tonight, after they finished off the chicken dish Gus had showed him how to prepare, he told Ian about when he had first been married.  All Mena, his wife, had known how to make was radish soup or sausages, which Gus remembered her burning more often than not. Ian was surprised to hear him talking about Mena. She was never really discussed, no pictures of her on the walls of Gus’s home, and in the months that Ian had lived in the loft, he couldn’t remember Gus having any visitors. Gus lived like an old bachelor, so Ian had been surprised when he had learned that he was married, because it seemed like he had no family to speak of.  Curiosity peaked, Ian asked him about Mena.

 

“Ah, not tonight, _mon fils_ , I am tired and it has become late.  Some night, and soon, but not this night.  You should sleep now, _bonne nuit_.” Gus waved him off towards his loft room as he turned off the lamp nearby, darkening the room and effectively ending the conversation. Ian relaxed into his bed shortly after, still suddenly curious about what happened to Mena.  As he stretched out as best he could in the small bed, he faintly heard the song he had come to think of as his lullaby, the song that Gus always put himself to sleep with. Ian couldn’t translate most of the words, but felt like he knew the song by heart, as he drifted to sleep with a full belly and Mickey in his thoughts.

 

“ _Le temps passe et court,_

_En battant tristement dans mon cœur si lourd,_

_Et pourtant j’attendrai ton retour”_

 

_***_

 

Ian began to feel restless as he felt his time in Paris was coming to a close.  Not _manic_ -restless, he knew that much, but maybe...disappointed?  He wasn’t sure what was the cause, but he has spoken to Dr. Reta about it. She was content that his feelings were normal, acceptable, “ _non-triggered response_ ”, she called it.  He was missing home, of course that was part of it. The allure of the city and the anonymity it gave him was slowly wearing off after nearly 5 months spent hustling day to day.  When it came down to it, he thought, he wasn’t much different here than he had been in Chicago in many ways. He’d learned enough of the language to get by, finding more people willing to speak English with him than to criticize his rudimentary language skills. Hiis lifestyle here was just his usual version of thriving in poverty and adapting to whatever situation or group of people he found himself in on any given day.  As the days passed, he had begun to question what he was doing there. If he felt no different here, 4000 miles and an ocean away from everything he knew, what was the point? Why did he leave behind his family, his job, his Mickey to find something...and he still didn’t know what. Was he looking for a feeling? Maybe a sign? A sage or scholar to tell him what the hell he was supposed to find? Maybe he was just looking in  the wrong place. He had reasoned that whenever he found it, whenever he _knew_ , than the hand-wrenching, skin-itching, mind-buzzing monotony would just stop and clear, and he would clearly see the next step.  The step home, the step into his future, _their_ future.  What could he offer to Mickey if he couldn’t even decide where he belonged?  The man who had given him everything had only ever wanted him, Ian, in return, but Ian had always known that wasn’t enough. Mickey deserved the world, and Ian was determined to keep looking until he found it.  Whatever it was, he would find it, see it, learn it, and lay it all at Mickey’s feet. Whatever it was.

 

Ian spent the day making plans, of sorts.  He wasn’t entirely sure where he’d settle next, but his plan was to find a place where he could feel different, somewhere that would definitely not feel like home.  He’d go east, he decided. If he had to go all the way to China, he’d find a world apart from what he was used to. He visited the travel office, booking the cheapest train ticket he could find, heading east. When the agent asked him his destination, he panicked and really did blurt out China.  He decided just to go with it, he would disappear from one of the stops along the way, when the place felt right. The agent outlined the trip for him, 2 seperate fares, beginning in Paris and ending in Beijing. About a week’s journey with 8 short stops and one layover. In Moscow, because of course.

 

Later that evening, as he sat sipping Gus’s strong lemonade, he asked the old man one last time about Mena. He sort of assumed that Gus had been on his own a long time, and Ian really did want to know that he’d be okay after he left.  Gus hadn’t opened up much about his wife, and really, the curiosity was starting to get to Ian.

 

“I’m leaving in 2 days, Gus. I hate the thought of leaving you alone.  I feel like Mena would not forgive me. What would she think if I just left you with no company?”, Ian gently teased his old friend, hoping he’d open up.

 

“Ah, _roux_ , my Mena would be stunned that you kept my company this long.” Gus laughed, seeming to relent. “She was a beauty, petite and dark haired. _C’est un miracle_ that I found her to love me. It was not easy.  Her family was from _le Portugal_ , and some people thought we made an odd pairing. She was my life, my _l’amour vrai_ , my true love.  Her father wanted to send her back to their family on the Spanish border, and she swore she would not go.  I promised her that I would wait for her. Wherever she was, whenever we could be, I would wait for her to come back to me.  And she did, after 4 years away. We were married outside, on the church steps, because we could not afford a wedding. I had her for 2 years before she took ill, _pneumonie_ , it took her quickly.  But her love saved me, in every way a man can be saved. More than religion, or luck, or money, love can save you. I lived in her love for 3 years, and I’ve waited 43 years more to be with her again. I can wait a bit more, for my love, she always comes back for me.”

 

It was the most Ian had heard Gus say in one go, and he felt the tears well up in his eyes.

 

“Do not be sad for me, _mon files_. I am safe and loved.  I find her sometimes, in the stars that shine or the wind at the door. I am happy to wait.  I play our song, and I know how it felt to hold her hand, to dance with her close.”

 

“Is that the song you play every night?” Ian asks quietly, almost embarrassed.  He almost feels now that hearing the song each night was invading the old man’s privacy.  “I never could get all the words.”

 

“Ah, yes, our song.” Gus begins, with a slight lilt in his voice.

“ _I will wait night and day, I will wait forever,_

_For you to come back, I will wait._

_For the bird flying away, comes to seek oblivion in its nest._

_Time flies and runs, beating sadly in my oh so heavy heart,_

_And yet I will wait for you to come back.”_

 

“Our song reminds me,” Gus explained to Ian. “You will know, Ian, if you know love. Distance, time, place does not matter. When love is there, it will wait for you. It will always find you when you are lost.  You go to sleep now. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

 

Ian waited until the house was dark, but he could not fall asleep.  His meager bags were already packed and he was ready for his last day in Paris.  He tossed and turned all night, until the sky outside the high window in his room just started to change from black to the faintest pink.  He pulled on his sweatpants, grabbed a worn spiral notebook, stuffing into the waistband. With his pen between his teeth, he hoisted himself out the window, feeling along the tiny ledge to grab onto the chimney.  He shimmied along the slate of the roof, using the chimney for balance, until he clung to the spot he was reaching for. He had climbed up here a few times before, seeking the comfort and peace that a sunrise had always brought him.  This was the highest point in the (not very tall to begin with) house, but it did afford the luxury of an obscured, albeit distant as hell view of the Seine River. He settled onto the eaves of the roof, dangling his long legs over the edge and opened his notebook to think.

 

As the light began to spread it’s colors across the city and the water, Ian was almost startled by how strongly his mind was drawn back to dozens of mornings in his past. Of climbing to the top of Mickey’s favorite shooting range, the abandoned building back in Chicago, awake before most of the city, buzzing with energy and running mile after mile trying to outrun the rush he could never seem to shake.  It struck, but really didn’t shock him that even here, an ocean away from him, he only thought of Mickey. He saw him the blue of the river, in the beauty of the buildings, in the noise of the city, and now in the quiet colors of the morning. He had come so far in distance to find himself, but still all he could see was the blue-eyed man he had loved for years.

 

Although the thought brought a warmth to his chest, he found himself disappointed in himself.  He couldn’t afford to chase this need forever, and yet he couldn’t return back to Chicago without the answers he was looking for. He sighed to himself as he pulled out his notebook.

 

***

 

_Hey Mick, I know it’s probably a shitty thing to say, but I really wish you were here with me right now.  It’s barely morning right now, and I’m up on the roof. Yeah, I know, don’t freak out. It’s just like looking out on the city reminded me of you.  Not sure why, maybe it’s because I’m leaving here tomorrow. Maybe I just miss you. Maybe it’s just memories, not like of here, but all the stuff it reminds me of.  Remember that time we crashed at the old building, up on the roof, when your dad was on a bender and Fi was being a super bitch, and we camped out for like 3 days? I thought about that this morning.  You’d be surprised Mick, that you’re kinda everywhere in this city, even though you’re not. I guess really instead, I kinda wish I was there, or that I was, I don’t know...ready to be there. Tomorrow I catch a train east.  There’s a few stops along the way, but the first layover is in Moscow. I hope I don’t run into any of Svet’s relatives. Maybe not all Russians wield clawhammers, so maybe I’ll explore there a little. Gus finally told me about his wife last night.  I felt really selfish, but I just kept thinking about us. They had so little time together, even though their circumstances were way different than ours. But he just waited for her. He waited before they could properly just be together, and now he just waits to be with her again, like in heaven or something. Is that what it’s been like for you, Mickey?  Have you just kept waiting and waiting until I got my shit together enough to deserve you? Or just waiting for me to fuck it all up again? Waiting for me now to bring my crazy ass home? Gus said that love waits for you. God, I hope that’s true, that you love me, and that you can wait for me to sort out this mess in my head. It feels like I’ve been making you wait forever.  I’m going to figure this out, Mick. And I’ll come back and deserve your love. I’ll be like a whole person. And you’ll be free, like you were one time before. You save me, too, every time. For what it’s worth, which is everything to me, I’m waiting for you, Mick, just like I promised. You know that means I love you, Ian._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to suspend reality regarding my geography. Having never left the country, all locations are solely as I picture them, and no representations are meant to offend. Muah!


End file.
